


Undercover Lover

by ladywithalamp



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Everyone Thinks They're Together, How Do I Tag, Insecure Brock Rumlow, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Strike Team Delta, Undercover as Married, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25697869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladywithalamp/pseuds/ladywithalamp
Summary: When Agents Barton and Wilson are compromised on an operation that leaves them hospitalized, Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollins are tasked with filling their position and closing out the mission. The only problem? They have to get married. With the importance of this mission set in stone by their friend's injuries, Brock and Jack know that they need to complete what was started; people are dying, and it's only a matter of time before more couples are hurt along the way. But marriage? That's a step they'd never thought they'd have to take. For better or worse, right?
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow, Sharon Carter/Maria Hill
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter One - For Better or Worse

**Author's Note:**

> So instead of working on the sequel I've wanted to do for my other work or my own stuff, my brain decided it needed me to write this lovely little piece. I noticed that there were no Undercover as Married stories for HH and, if there were, I never saw them. This is just kind of a fun little piece I'll be working on as I can, but I hope you enjoy!  
> 
> 
>  **TRIGGER WARNING:** at the beginning, Brock uses the term 'fairy' as an insult. It's not used any other place but I wanted to let y'all know.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After learning that Agents Barton and Wilson have been taken off their current operation, Brock and Jack are tasked with replacing them. And there are two problems with that. 
> 
> The first: they gotta play house.  
> The second: they gotta move to the _fuckin' suburbs._

Jesus fuckin’ wept how could this be his life?

“Yer kiddin’, right? Yah ain’t actually fuckin’ for real, right?” The calm, slightly smug look on Sitwell’s face said otherwise, a neon fuckin’ sign of _‘no, Commander Rumlow, I’m not. This is actually fucking for real.’_ Brock scrubs a hand down his face, heaving a sigh from his nose as he drops down into the chair in front of his boss’s desk. Beside him, Jack Rollins, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Stoic himself, is eerily quiet.

Bastard. 

“You and Agent Rollins are the most qualified for the job,” Sitwell says, voice entirely _too fucking calm._ “And, from the intel gathered before Wilson and Barton were—” a pause, Sitwell’s brow creasing in a grimace so miniscule Brock barely would have registered it had he not been looking right at him— “ _compromised,_ the handful of couples already assaulted were—”

“Fuckin’ fairies.” Brock cut in, matter of fact, and Sitwell sighed, pulling a face at the word. He didn’t correct him. “We _know,_ Jasper, so why’s that got anythin’ to do with Jack an’ me? Neither of us are—” 

“Fuckin’ fairies,” Sitwell finishes, voice droll, and Brock realizes his mistake, eyes widening. He hastens to apologize but the other man waves him off. “It’s alright, agent. I know you meant nothing by it. But no. The _reason_ you and Agent Rollins have been chosen to replace Wilson and Barton is because you work well together. You have been paired for—” Sitwell pauses, eyes glancing down at the paperwork littering his desktop, wanting to get the number correct. 

Another voice beats him to it. 

“Ten years, sir. Ten years, seven months, and twelve days, if you wanted to get technical.” Brock turns to stare at the man beside him like he’s just grown two heads. ‘Course, he knew that they’d worked together for an age an’ a day but _ten fuckin’ years?_ Christ, he was getting old. Jack’s dark eyes didn’t waver from the way they held Sitwell’s gaze across his desk and that assurance, that _confidence,_ was why he was Brock’s SIC. It was steady and dependable and—

“Fuck me,” Brock mutters, dropping his hands to rub at his thighs through the fabric. “Shoulda known you remembered that kinda shit. Why ‘m I even surprised?” Sitwell was kind enough not to look too amused when Brock glanced back up, the small envelope housing the signifiers of their upcoming union slid toward him across the desk. Brock tried not to glower. 

_“Mazel tov,_ boys, now go discuss the details of your honeymoon.” 

Brock stood, tossed off a sloppy salute, and stalked from the room. He could hear a quiet chuckle as the door slammed shut behind him.

Fucking _bastard._

***

Brock Rumlow sincerely hated his life. And, no, not because of the mission, not really. No, it was because they’d made him move somewhere he’d promised himself he’d never fuckin’ go again.

The suburbs. 

And they were making him drive a _fucking Prius._

“This is some fuckin’ bullshit,” he grumbled, heaving himself from the passenger side door with a scowl on his face, pinkie finger toying with the foreign ring on his left hand. “A fuckin’ Prius. Couldn’t even give us a goddamn truck. _Nooooo._ ‘Budget cuts.’ Sitwell says, ‘so sorry,’ he says, ‘not enough funding.’ Not enough funding my ass.” Brock spoke as he moved, popping open the hatchback with deft fingers and moving boxes onto the sidewalk. Jack stood beside him, towering _at least_ a foot and a half over the top of their shitty little car, arms crossed and an amused smirk pulling at the side of his mouth. 

“Ain’t funny, Rawls. The movin’ truck’s late an’”— As if on cue the U-Haul pulls up behind them, parking neatly alongside the curb. Brock’s mood brightens slightly at the familiar faces driving, the twin heads of blond hair as Steve Rogers and Thor Odinson (shit you not that was the guy’s _legal_ name) hopped out of the cab looking, for all that they could, like underpaid, overworked moving company employees. 

The ruse worked, since they were already built like two, solid, shitbrickhouses, anyway. 

Jack turned his head, side-eyeing Brock for a moment before motioning toward them as though to say _‘well? Go on'_ and Brock had never been more grateful for a distraction in his goddamn life. See, the thing was this: he and Jack? They were friends, best friends in fact, but even this was a bit much. Sure, it was an assignment and they _were_ qualified for it, but the amount of time it had taken to get their backstories straight and their information falsified to look legit was slightly terrifying. 

Then again Natasha was good at her job.

He thanked the Lord for her every day, even if she was a little bit terrifying. 

“Jus’ put th’ boxes on th’ lawn,” he said, raising his voice a bit as he walked a little closer. See, this he could do. It put a bit of a pep in his step, actually, knowing he was still the boss. Steve and Thor nodded, the former giving him a bit of a small, encouraging smile. Brock didn’t acknowledge it, though he felt a bit better knowing his team had his back. Speaking of— Brock turned to look over his shoulder, brow arching at the man leaned up against the silver monstrosity the agency called a car. Jack wasn’t looking at him but, instead, had his eyes fixed on the house they’d be staying in for the duration of the op. 

It wasn’t so bad, he supposed, in that cookie-cutter-we-all-look-like-fuckin’-aliens kind of way. Tan exterior, white trim, brickwork on the porch pillars and near the two-door garage; it was small, but that was to be expected. It was just supposed to be them, after all, so they didn’t need the space, though Brock had been pleasantly surprised when they’d pulled up and he’d seen a yard. 

He hadn’t had one growing up. Brooklyn wasn’t big on green spaces. The most green he ever saw was when he’d taken a trip into the city with his old man for a Yankees/Giants game and they’d gone to the stadium. He knew Central Park existed, but like fuck he was ever going there. With New York traffic? No, thank you. He’d been content to sit his happy ass at home on the outskirts of the state and never step foot into the city again unless it was strictly necessary.  
Brock realized he was staring when Jack suddenly turned, amused, to stare back. Brock resisted the urge to flip him off, so he lifted his chin instead, daring him to say anything. Jack just shook his head, eyes flicking past Brock’s shoulder, before he was suddenly moving closer. 

“Neighbors are comin’ out,” Jack said as he sidled up alongside the other man, throwing a casual arm across his shoulders and leaning down to press a kiss into his hair. It made Brock’s stomach squirm, though he leaned into the other man’s side all the same, tilting his head up to catch the other’s eye.  
It was already starting. _Fuck._

Brock let out a steadying breath, quiet enough that only Jack could hear it, before turning to watch Rogers and Odinson lift the last of the heavy shit from the back of the U-Haul. A few minutes later, Brock perked right the fuck up, a wide smile catching on his face despite himself. 

They’d given him his baby. 

The Softail Slim, chromed out and a vivid black, slid down the ramp onto the street and Brock _might_ have made a noise of appreciation at the sight of her if the bark of laughter Jack hid in the top of his head was anything to go by. Without thought, Brock smacked him in the stomach and said, giddy, “Shut the fuck up, Jackie. I haven’t had a ride in _ages.”_

It was something he and Steve had in common, actually, and he could see the way Rogers was eyeing the motorcycle longingly. Brock’s grin only widened and he wiggled out from under Jack’s arm, hand going to his pocket as he thumbed a few bills out for the guys. Steve intercepted him but the look in his eye remained. 

“Thanks man,” he said, voice sweet and genuine, though Brock could see the way Rogers caught the smug undertone. The blond rolled his eyes but pasted his own smile on because he knew just the same as Brock did that they were all being watched. 

“‘Course. Happy to help. You have our card.” _We’ll be listening._

“Right, right. Thanks again.” Acknowledged. 

They left and he and Jack were alone, standing in front of their new fuckin’ house with their fuckin’ Prius and a box covered porch and lawn, nosy ass neighbors already crawling out of the woodwork to see who the fuck the new guys were. 

Let’s fucking do this, then.

***

The first person stopped by later that night and Brock groaned before throwing his head back into the couch cushions.

Most of their shit had been moved already, days before, on the premise of checking the house out one final time before move in. ‘Course he and Jack hadn’t been there. That was Barnes’ job, and he’d done a damn good one, though far be it from Brock to say a damn thing. All their shit had been in place, Brock’s clothes even hanging on the proper side of the closet, and so the things they’d moved in had been trivial. Equipment, a few extra pieces they’d need for surveillance, that kind of thing. 

Brock was still dead fucking tired at the end of it all. When he and Jack had collapsed on the couch hours later, it had been for real. 

They’d been debriefing for hours beforehand, on the drive down and at the office, and it was getting really fucking old. He just wanted some _rest,_ goddamnit.

Craning his neck to look at the door, hoping that whoever it was would go the fuck away, Brock cursed under his breath when the bell rang again. He clambered to his feet, dragging Jack with him, and hauled the door open with a practiced, easy smile on his face. 

The young blonde woman that stood on his porch, sundress on and eager-faced, threw him for enough of a loop that he had to choke down his surprise. Behind her and just to the left, a brunette woman in jeans, a white t-shirt, and Converse stopped mid-sentence. Jack crowded in close behind him to get a look at who was at the door, and Brock felt an arm curl around his waist. 

“Hi! We’re so sorry to bug you this early but, well, here.” The blonde extended some crockery covered by a lid and Brock took it on autopilot, holding it close to his chest so he wouldn’t drop it. “We figured, being new and all, you wouldn’t have time to cook anything. We also wanted to invite you over, sometime, when you were settled in.” The brunette mutters something, grabbing for the blonde’s hand and _oh,_ and the blonde nods, tucking a piece of hair behind an ear. “I’m Sharon Hill, by the way. Stupid. Should have said that first. And that’s my wife, Maria.” 

They were a good looking couple, was Brock’s first thought. A sweet and salty kind of deal, Sharon’s personality good-natured and bubbly where Maria was _clearly_ the quieter of the two. 

“You’ll have to forgive Mar, she’s had a long day at work, you know how it is.” Behind him, Jack laughed and nodded his head, something Brock could feel more than see, they were pressed so close. 

“Don’t I know the feeling,” he said, maneuvering around Brock a bit so he could offer a hand to shake, since Brock’s were currently occupied. “Name’s Matthew and this is my husband, James. Thank you for the food. It smells great. And the invitation. We’ll be sure to take you up on it. I assume you’re down the way?” 

“Mmhmm, two doors over,” Sharon said, beaming. Jack’s free hand had started rubbing circles into Brock’s hip, an almost unconscious action and Jesus-H-Christ _how_ was this happening? Jack nodded again, filing that information away for later, no doubt, and Brock mumbled his own thanks, hoping the look on his face was more tired than anything else. They exchanged pleasantries and phone numbers for another minute more before the door was closed and Brock could drop the smile again. 

His cheeks hurt already. 

“Come on, boss,” Jack said amicably as he, finally, dropped the hand from around his waist. “It’s not so bad. ‘Sides, now we got dinner.” 

“Yeah if ‘s not fuckin’ poisoned,” Brock muttered, tired and irritated at having to smile so fucking much and maybe a little bit more than confused about why Jack was suddenly okay with touching him all the time. Working a mission was one thing, having his six another, but the amount of casual contact they’d exchanged in the last few hours was seriously not making any sense. 

Jack nudged him with a shoulder. “Quit thinkin’ so loud and come eat the damn casserole.” 

Brock sighed and nodded and followed the taller man into the living room, a headache already blooming behind his eye. 

This was going to be a _long_ mission.


	2. Chapter Two - Late Nights, Early Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they settle into their new home for the foreseeable future or, at least, until this op is complete, Brock's insecurities begin to rear their ugly little head, making it very clear that this mission could, potentially, be the hardest one yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morning, morning guys! Here's installment two for this little piece. Yes, I am super excited about it. There are BRIEF mentions of violence but nothing graphic. Mainly it's just an excuse to start the domesticity and the panicking of Brock Rumlow. Thanks for reading!

That casserole was one of the best things Brock had ever fuckin’ eaten, and that was coming from a man whose _nonna_ made pasta and cannoli by hand. The food made setting up for the rest of the night bearable, particularly ensuring the surveillance systems, equipment, and weapons were in top condition. While Barton and Wilson had been in a house a few doors down, SHIELD had gutted the place in order to keep up appearances, claiming there was a gas leak and the former owners had been hospitalized. Though Brock knew, of course, that every lie was only half truth, he found himself wishing that the truth in that statement hadn’t been the latter part of it. 

Barton and Wilson had been walking home with Lucky, Clint’s service dog, when it’d happened. The memories were fuzzy and not much was coherent between the two of them, but it was clear that whoever they’d been searching for had targeted Brock’s agents. And they’d pay for it, one way or another. That thought was what drove him now, seated at their kitchen table dismantling, cleaning and putting Jack’s rifle back together. The other man had Brock’s handgun in pieces on the coffee table a few feet away. A comforting silence pervaded the room. He and Jack had gone over the debrief, gone back over their cover stories, made sure they had everything in place. 

They did, of course they did. It was nearly as easy as breathing, but there was an importance to finishing off this mission that hung over the both of them. 

Settling the last piece of the barrel into place, Brock set the gun to the side and rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes going cross eyed. It was nearly two in the morning if the clock in the kitchen was anything to go by. He said as much as he stood, groaning quietly when his back popped, hip slipping out of place as he walked forward. Though he never said it, getting old terrified him, particularly in their line of work. 

It was one thing to get old or fat or slow when he worked from home like his cover, James Rocci, did but Brock Rumlow? Brock Rumlow could get someone killed, could get _Jack_ killed, and it was part of the reason he never, ever spoke about it. Never spoke about the way his shoulder clicked every morning when he rolled over or the way he limped, sometimes, after a long day on his feet. How, like now, sitting for too long in one position meant his hip would lock up and it’d be a crapshoot if it would slide back into place or not that day. The only one who knew was Jack, and Jack never said a goddamned thing, not to him or to anyone else about it. And that, right there, was why some of the anxiety of the day had worn off. Brock knew Jack had his six and it was s’posed to be for better or worse these days, right? 

“Sit your ass down and let me see your goddamn leg.” 

Brock blinks, sleepy but alert, not expecting the casual tone or the order from his SIC. Jack Rollins was a different breed of man, though, and he and Brock were a well-oiled machine in and outside of work. Brock figured you could blame that on the decade they’d spent in one another’s company. It was a wonder they hadn’t killed one another yet. 

Brock lowered himself down slowly, prepared to kick his legs up on the coffee table and ignore Jack’s fussing. What he wasn’t prepared for was the larger man wrapping his entire hand around Brock’s ankle and tugging, sliding him halfway across the couch with a single pull. Brock squawked, indignant, but Jack just smirked, both brows arching up toward his hairline, content to wait the other man out. It was an old song and dance, one they’d dealt with for years. Brock settled back into the arm of the couch with his arms folded tight to his chest, glaring up at the man beside him even as he shifted around so Jack could get a better hold of his leg. 

He trusted his team with his life.

He trusted Jack with his age, with the grey hairs peppering his hair and the aching of old injuries, the relaxation that was so rare in their line of work. That meant far more when Brock was trusting him with both. 

Sighing through his nose, Brock watched through half-lidded eyes as his friend tugged the pant leg of his sweats down to his ankle, adjusting one hand to rest just beneath his knee. The other took a bit more maneuvering, eventually perching Jack just above him, eyes laser focused as he kept the hip steady. Brock didn’t move. He just breathed in deep through his nose, let it out slowly through his mouth. The curse that fell from his lips was loud, even still, when the leg was brought up midway to his chest and the hip flexor settled back into place with a pop! that echoed in the quiet of their new living room. 

“How’s that,” Jack asked, moving his hands back so Brock could sit up, testing the leg for a moment. Rolling the hip out to the side a bit, he nodded when the joint didn’t stiffen up or crack after a minute or so. Jack nodded back, watching his face for a moment, before settling himself back on the other end of the couch. Brock curled up on the opposite end, legs tossed over Jack’s despite being the smaller of the two. 

“Should start doin’ fuckin’ yoga or some shit again,” he mumbled, the words half covered by the arm he’d thrown over his face. That was another thing most people didn’t know. His workouts didn’t always consist of heavy weights and punching bags. Their work was stressful; he didn’t need to add a heart condition to the already burgeoning cloud that was his age. And the yoga _did_ help, particularly with instances like this one. It also meant he didn’t need Jack around all the time to help him stretch out what wouldn’t go back into place. “Figure...yer th’ one leavin’ th’ fuckin’ house. Gotta do somethin’.” 

And that was the other thing, the way their backstories had been laid out: they were fuckin’ annoying. 

James Rocci worked from home, ran some fuckin’ online fitness classes, had a YouTube channel and a website, made money through the thousands of subscribers he had and the book he’d written (yes, really, a fuckin’ _book._ Who came up with this shit?) Meanwhile, Matthew Rocci, formerly Ivanov, was a history teacher at a local high school. 

They met in a coffee shop, of all places, or so the story went, and the rest was history. 

Yeah, Brock thought it was cheesy as fuck, too. 

But, see, the thing was...the stories _fit._ Jack was the smart one, he really was. Knew his way around a computer and a textbook just as easily as he did a gun. And Brock, well, it was no secret he took great pride in his workout regimen. The pieces were embedded in truth, as all the best stories went. Even their little fucking “meet cute” (as the kids called it) was sort of true. They _had_ met before working together, though Brock distinctly remembers having a coffee spilled on his shirt instead of being swept off his feet by the giant lug. 

“Yah know Jackie...the story they gave us is really fuckin’ weird.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Yer serious?” Brock lifted his head, craning his neck so he could look at the man beside him. Jack’s long fingers were finishing on settling the last few pieces of Brock’s gun in place. The smaller man watched for a moment, humming in approval at a job well done, before continuing. “They even know how we fuckin’ met. Well. Sorta. That don’t weird yah out, not even a little? Usin’ all our shit tah make it look like we’re—”

— “a couple?” 

Brock sat in silence for a long moment, debating on whether he should glare or kick the other man. As though sensing his thoughts, Jack sat back and wrapped one of his large hands around the whole of Brock’s foot, bending it back toward his shin carefully, seemingly mulling over his next words. The other man hissed quietly but allowed it, still glowering. 

“Not really. ‘S easy to believe when you bend it that way and, really, who else could put up with your ass for this long?” Brock did kick out at him, then, or tried to, baring his teeth when Jack just grabbed that foot, too. For his part, Jack continued, unphased by his commanding officer’s behavior. Like they did this every night. “Not to mention, I don’t think you wanna be anywhere _near_ some snot nosed, pimple faced high school kids like I’m s’posed to be.” 

Brock wrinkled his nose and nodded. Jack was right. He would sooner carve his eyes out with a rusty spoon. Still, Brock was sulking at the prospect of having to find shit to do around the house, and the neighborhood, without Jack there to bounce ideas off of. A thumb swiping up the arch of his foot, from the ball to heel, cut off that train of thought and Brock gave another hiss, pulling away entirely to curl up against the couch arm. 

Jack just smirked, the bastard. 

The silence stretched on for some number of minutes before Brock unfurled again, nudging Jack’s thigh with a toe. The bigger man had, since, leaned into the back of the couch, head tipped back and eyes closed. He hummed when Brock prodded at him again, cracking an eye open as he turned to look. 

“Guess they got one thing right, though.”

“Hmm?”

“Yah did sweep me offa my feet.” The huff that pulled out of the other man was more amused than anything but the eye roll was what Brock had been looking for. Sitting up, he swung his legs off Jack’s lap and slapped him on the knee. “Come on, Jackie. You gotta get up early. I gotta do some yoga or shit, I dunno. But we need to look like we actually slept or else the neighbors’ll start sayin’ shit.” 

Brock thought he’d get off scott free, he really did. Jack was silent as they put their guns away, Brock tucking his into the waistband of his sweats to keep in his bedside table. He was silent as Brock trudged up the stairs, brushed his teeth, and flopped face down on the left side of their California king sized bed that Sitwell insisted _(insisted)_ that they needed to both use because ‘if you’re being watched it needs to look legitimate. You’ve been married for five years, boys, so start acting like it.’ Jack was silent until he slid beneath the covers and leaned over to click off the light, comfortable enough to share space (they’d been doing it for years, anyhow). Silent until—

“The neighbors’ll just think we fucked all night.” 

Brock hit him in the face with a pillow.

***

The sunlight streaming in through the windows was like a dagger to the eye.

Brock groaned and shoved his face into the pillow beneath him, trying and failing to hide from the sunlight cutting across the sheets. It took him only a handful of seconds to realize that, _no,_ that was not a pillow he’d just mashed his face into. Pushing himself up onto his elbows, Brock glared blearily at the body beneath his own only to realize it was Jack Rollins. 

Jack Rollins, who happened to be awake, and entirely too amused by the situation. A situation that, really, wouldn’t have happened at all, except Brock had been tired and when he was comfortable he did this, sprawled out until he took up the entirety of whatever he was laying on. In this case, that also seemed to include Jack himself. 

“Oh fuck off,” Brock grumbled, shoving halfheartedly at the other man as he pulled away and wiggled to his side of the bed, wrapping himself in the blankets for good measure. Jack’s protests went unacknowledged, though Brock knew he’d not be going back to sleep, and he listened as his friend sighed and then heaved himself up from the other side of the bed before shuffling on sock-clad feet to the bathroom a few minutes later.  
It was only after Jack disappeared into the bathroom that Brock uncurled from the ball he’d tucked himself into, limbs sprawling across the warm spot Jack had just vacated. He breathed in deep as he listened to the sounds of another person moving around but paid them no mind. Instead, his eyes fixated on the gold band that still donned his left ring finger. He toyed with it absentmindedly, lost in thought, and was still doing so when Jack emerged from the bathroom clad in running shorts and a grey hoodie. 

“‘M gonna go for a run,” he said, and Brock hummed in acknowledgement, gaze flicking back toward the other man for a moment, a sleepy smile softening his face for the millisecond it took for Brock to control it, as he sat up and slid from the bed. He ignored the fact he had to fucking hop to do it, just like he ignored Jack’s _stupid_ face as he stalked past. Brock held up a finger, running his hand through the hair that was stuck up at all angles, and clipped down the stairs into the kitchen. Jack followed and a few minutes later the front door closed behind him. 

Brock was alone for the first time in months and it was a jarring feeling. Something in his chest settled just off center as he fixed a cup of coffee—black, three sugars since he couldn’t be fucked to find their creamer—and slid onto the kitchen counter, one foot tucked beneath his thigh as he sipped from the mug. It allowed him to formulate his plan of action for the day. It also afforded him a single, blissful moment of unabashed _panic_ at his situation. 

He didn’t know how to fucking do _this._ Didn’t know how to be someone’s husband. How to look at someone like they hung the fucking moon and shit out stars. Brock was a self-diagnosed narcissist. He knew that, knew he was hard to care about and even harder to put up with. And he couldn’t wrap his head around the why of it. 

_Why_ had Sitwell chosen him and Jack?

_Why_ was it so fucking easy to let Jack take care of everything when Brock himself couldn’t? 

_Why_ did this sudden second guessing bullshit have to crowd out the things he should have been thinking about at ass o’clock in the morning? 

The sound of the door opening again made Brock’s spine snap straighter, eyes transfixed on the figure walking through, hand poised to either chuck the mug he held or reach for a knife if it wasn’t a familiar face. 

Jack stopped in the doorway, staring for a long minute, before shaking his head and closing the door behind him. “Hope you made me one,” he said, and Brock grinned, baring his teeth at him as he slid an empty mug toward the Keurig. Jack caught it as he walked by, knuckles knocking into the leg Brock had perched on the handle of the cabinet below him. The smell of sweat and coffee intermingled in the space and Brock found himself more at ease now that there was another body in the house. 

He chose not to dwell on what would happen when Jack left again. Instead, they sat in companionable silence, sipping from their respective mugs. After Brock’s second and Jack’s third and a plate of eggs each, they roused themselves from the sprawl they’d made of themselves across the kitchen table, Jack off to shower and ready himself for ‘work’ while Brock fiddled around with the files they had on their neighbors. He would start with the Hills. 

The thud of footsteps on the stairs thirty minutes later alerted Brock to the other man’s presence once more. He glanced up from beneath the black rims of his spectacles, a smirk twisting the edge of his mouth as he let out a loud whistle. “Well don't cha clean up nice, Jackie. Come on, do a spin for me.” Brock howled when the other man flipped him off, but he was also telling the truth. He _did_ look good, was the thing, and Brock wasn’t afraid to admit it. With his slicked-back hair, long legs hugged by a pair of well-fitted navy blue slacks and a crisp, white button down rolled up to his forearms, Jack looked like he’d stepped out of someone’s wet dream. It would be a wonder if he got anything done today, let alone taught a fucking lesson. 

‘Course, Brock knew that the position wasn’t really _real._ Jack was going to show up and he was gonna flash his credentials and that big, pearly white smile of his and the principal was gonna shut her trap and let him move right along with his plans. Fury had set up the whole goddamned thing, Sitwell had assured them of it, and it made the man’s leaving just a little bit easier. See, some of their neighbors worked at the school and the agency figured getting to know them at the workplace, too, would only help their case. Especially now, when two of their own had already been fucked seven ways to Sunday. 

Brock set his laptop to the side and got to his feet, rolling his shoulders as he moved into Jack’s space, looked him up and down, and grinned. “Yeah. Yeah I think you’ll do alright, Jackie. Jus’ fine.” Then, he was walking them both toward the door, down the sidewalk and out onto the driveway. It was only when Jack was getting ready to drive away, that Brock was leaning in through the car window and pressing a kiss to the side of Jack’s mouth—because the entire neighborhood could see—that he realized just how fucked they were. 

This was real and the ring on his finger just made it ten times more complicated.


	3. Chapter Three - Reactions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ingratiating yourself into a new neighborhood is tiresome and boring and very difficult, particularly when you're just one side of a team. Brock makes do with the information he gets, however, and is invited to attend a neighborhood barbecue with Jack the second evening of their stay. His insecurities continue and, really, he cannot wait for this whole thing to be over so he can bury his head back in the sand...But, they have to sell it, sell the fact that they're married, so Brock will have to suffer for just a while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, folks! Here's the next installment for this little brain weasel. Kudos and comments are appreciated. Let me know what your thoughts are, too!
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNING:** Minor mentions of an allergic reaction and the usage of needles that comes with an epipen. Otherwise, nothing graphic. Enjoy!!

All kidding aside, Brock’s crisis wasn't fun. It wasn't fun _at all._ Once he realized he was home alone, there was a certain uneasiness that settled into his bones, something nasty that nagged at him for most of the day. He had to keep himself busy because of it. Started yoga up again (yes, really), puttered around the house and backyard in the pretense of tidying up before venturing out to look over his baby and make sure the neighbors could see him at home. 

He met a few more of them when he did. A quiet, kind of nerdy lookin' guy with glasses, said his name was Bruce. He lived next door to Sharon and Maria, just to the left of Brock and Jack's. Another pair, the Maximoff siblings, lived directly across the street. They were living in a house they'd paid for after their parents had died. On it went until Brock was sick of smiling and sick of playing nice, sick of the pleasantries and sick at the way playing house was making him feel. He shut himself back inside, locked the bike in the garage, and called it a day. 

He had files to go over anyway, intel gathered before his arrival that he needed to brush up on. And an evening at a block party to plan for. Apparently, something about his face said _'hey I like nosy suburban neighborhood barbecues, please invite me to them'_ because he'd been reminded no more than five times.  
And it was _exhausting._

And Brock needed to share that exhaustion with someone, right now, immediately, so of course the second he was done showering he called Jack.  
The phone was set on the bathroom counter, speakerphone buzzing as he waited, brush in hand and towel around his waist. 

It took five rings before Jack's voice came over the line. 

"Hey honey," he said, tone warm, and Brock paused, staring down at the phone and wondering how he should respond. "How's the day been? Neighbors breakin' down the door yet?" Ah, okay. He could _do_ this. 

"Nah, not too many. Jus' the ones across th' street, really. Sweet kids. Named Wanda an' Pietro." He leaned toward the mirror as he spoke, fingers running through his hair, trying to hide the greys. "Think I found Thor a boyfriend though. Name's Bruce. I think he works at the university or somethin'. Real nerdy type, got super excited about th' bike engine. Told him he could take a look at it one day this week." He was damn proud of that bike and as long as the visit was supervised, Brock didn’t see a problem.

The only answer he got from Jack was a considering noise, something in the sound that made him file it away for later. 

Brock prattled on for a few minutes more, Jack interjecting from time to time, before he brought up the party. By now, he was clothed, sweats and a tank top and his glasses, phone situated on his chest as he reclined back on the bed. "Forgot tah mention it to yah earlier but, uh, whole fuckin' neighborhood invited us tah Sharon and Maria's barbecue. 'S tonight, apparently. Told 'em all we'd"—he pitched his voice into that overly enthusiastic tone he'd used earlier, smiling to himself when Jack started cracking up on the other end of the line— _"love_ to come but, unfortunately, that I gotta ask my husband, see how he's feelin' after his first day back tah work." 

Jack was quiet for a moment after that, Brock's breathing gone shallow so he could hear. It had gone on long enough that he almost thought they'd been disconnected when: "Sure. Why the hell not? Gotta get as much exposure as we can, right?" Brock hummed in agreement, about to say something again, when a voice cut in in the background. A minute later, Jack returned to the line sounding apologetic. 

"Sorry. 'M the new kid. All the teachers keep askin' me shit. But we'll probably see one of them at the party. Name's Pierce, math teacher I think. Phil Coulson, an econ teacher, said he lived in the neighborhood." Another pause, this time a noticeably _female_ voice, and Brock narrowed his eyes. "Right, right. Sorry, I gotta get back. I'll call you on the way home, okay? Love you." 

The line went dead. Brock clutched the phone in his hand until his fingers went numb. 

_Fuck me,_ he thought, _this is going to be harder than I thought._

***

Later that afternoon, a pool of nerves had settled in Brock’s stomach, though it was understandable why. This was going to be their first real appearance out in the neighborhood. Not just some hunky-dory little love fest out on the front porch or parked in the driveway. They needed to sell this shit. If they couldn't, well, their op was fucked. They could wind up like Barton and Wilson or worse they could be—

"Wouldja stop thinking so fuckin' loud, boss. I can hear you from the bathroom." Brock twisted to the side, watching as Jack came back into the bedroom, tossing a towel back behind him as he walked through the doorway. He'd swapped the slacks out for a pair of jeans, the button down for a Polo shirt. He looked good, better than Brock did, anyway, and it made something uncomfortable tighten in his chest.

"What? I miss a spot shaving or something?" Jack reached a hand up to his face, ran it over one side of his jaw, and Brock smiled, shaking his head. 

"Nah, yer fine. 'S jus'...yah look nice. And I kinda feel like I look like shit." And, see, now he felt stupid because that wasn't what was supposed to come out of his mouth _at all._ Brock just stood where he was for a second, rooted to the spot, fingers clutching the red sweater in his hand until it was balled up in a fist and looking at anything but the larger man's face. 

He fiddled with the ring on his finger before heaving a sigh and shaking his shoulders out, pasting on a smile. "'S alright. Ain't like I gotta impress anyone all that much." His voice was muffled as he pulled the sweater over his head, head popping out the other side seconds later, fingers automatically moving to smooth the shirttails down at his waist.

Though it was pleasant during the day, the evenings got cold this time of year. He'd need the extra layer. Jack ran much warmer than he did, though, and the fact Brock even knew that kind of threw him into a mental tailspin. 

"You look _fine,_ Brock. " 

The closeness of Jack's tone startles him and he glances up, eyes widening, and when did he get so _close?_ Brock lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding at the look on Jack's face, something sincere there that lets Brock know he isn't messing around. The hands on his shoulders are a surprise, but Brock doesn't move, stands still as a statue, as Jack fiddles with the collar of his shirt beneath the sweater, tugs at the shoulders so they lay flat. 

"There. Looks good." Brock hears, and it's like he's underwater, the noise muffled as Jack presses closer to get a look at him in the mirror they had set up near the closet. Jack's hands fall away, one curling around Brock’s hip, and Brock swallows thickly before slanting a small smile toward him in the mirror.  
Then he sees the time on the wall. 

"Ah, fuck. C'mon we gotta go. We're gonna be late." That would be _bad._ So bad. Brock spins on his heel, running them through what they need as they collect wallets and keys, fit nearly translucent earpieces into their ears, and Brock perches glasses equipped with a camera onto his nose for good measure. He hops down the stairs two at a time and laces their hands together on the way out, tugging a bemused Jack behind. "C'mon Mattie," he says, grin wide and shoulders back, "let's kick this thing in th' fuckin' ass."

***

Brock hated people. It was official. He really, truly, did.

The walk over was easy, the street quiet save for the pair of them but the moment they reached the house two doors down, it was like a switch had been flipped. Loud music and chatter had already started and Brock almost wanted to reconsider, shrinking back slightly at the sound. 

He didn't like crowds all that much, though far be it from him to bring attention to that _ever._ A SHIELD agent who couldn't handle crowded spaces? Yeah, that'd go over well. Still, when his steps began to lag, Jack felt it, like he'd been expecting it. Maybe he had. But whatever it was, the thumb that swept across the knuckles of the hand Jack held was soothing, circles rubbed into the skin as he tugged them both gently forward. Jack kept him a bit behind his shoulder as they came closer, allowing him the space he needed to take a few deep breaths before rounding out the corner to the backyard. 

The sheer size of the place should have been Brock's first clue, really, but he was still a bit dumbstruck at the sight. It was a beautiful backyard, the landscaping near impeccable, and the seating for guests spanned a good half of the place. It let his shoulders ease some from the tight knot they'd formed, and the smile on his face when Sharon saw them was slight but genuine. 

He ignored the way Jack squeezed his fingers, or the way that thumb settled over the top of his ring finger. 

"Oh, we're so glad you could come," is the only thing Brock hears before he's being pulled into a tight hug, a bemused expression taking over Jack's face at the sight. Brock has to let go of his hand to hug back but Sharon lets him go soon enough and, then, he's back to leaning inside the step of Jack's shadow. It's safer there than anywhere else in this place, after all. 

The smile that lights up Sharon's face makes his own hurt, wondering how she could be so sweet and have it not feel like it was all an act. Jack clears his throat and speaks for the both of them when all Brock can do is stumble through something and rub at the back of his neck and wow these people are going to think he's a fuckin' idiot. 

"So are we. Sorry we were almost late. Jamie had to fix his hair." The tone was teasing, that wide, warm hand of his curling easily around the back of Brock’s neck, and Brock rolls his eyes and shakes his head, pointing back at him with a thumb as though to say 'this guy.' 

"Excuse th' hell outta me fer wantin' tah look nice. Jus' 'cause some of us look like _that_ all th' time don't mean th' rest of us do." He turns back to the blonde, shaking his head again, and leans a bit closer, like he's telling a secret, and Sharon's face is amused. "Nah, see Mattie needed tah change. One o' th' kids spilled somethin' on him at lunch. Gotta eat in the caf, yah know, so he had this big ol' stain when he came home." The next thing he knows, they're laughing and the squeeze at the back of his neck as Sharon leads them further into the backyard feels like he passed some sort of test. Brock breathes a little easier because hey, maybe they _could_ do this.

—"and that's Scott…works at the library downtown. He and his wife are expecting a little girl…owned Pym's pharmacy…." The things Sharon says filter in one ear and out the other as they meander through the crowds, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries, but Brock’s been cataloging everything for later, knows Jack is too. When she offers him a beer, Brock feigns disinterest with a "nah, sorry, I don’t drink no more" so he can keep a clear head. That means Jack won't drink, either. Not while they're surrounded by all these unknowns. Sharon gives him a curious look but nods, accepting the lie easily, though Brock was ready to defend it by saying he was sober. It wouldn't have exactly been a whole lie. He _didn't_ drink all that much, but he wasn't _sober._

On they went, until they'd linked back up with Maria and Brock got to see first-hand what shitting out stars looked like from an outside perspective. The look in the brunette's eye when her wife looped an arm through hers was, to put it mildly, _disgusting._ Overly fond and softened around the edges, when Maria pressed a kiss to the side of Sharon's head, Brock understood what it was that the blonde saw in her. And it gave him a toothache just looking at it. 

"So, James, how did you bag such a handsome fella?" That was Wanda, perched on the back of a chair, be-ringed fingers running through the ends of her hair, smirk lighting up her face when a chorus of voices bombarded Brock with their own curiosity. 

Brock groaned and ran a hand down his face, shaking his head when he caught Jack's eye. The bastard was smiling, one brow raised as though saying _'yeah James how'd we meet?'_ He'd rehearsed this. He had but fuck if he didn't hate the story. 

"Alright, _alright,"_ he grumbled, waving them off with a laugh. He leaned back a bit into the chair behind him, Jack's arm tossed across his shoulder as he crossed his own across his chest. "Pack o' fuckin' vultures." They all laugh and Brock finds himself smiling. 

"See, I used tah work real close to this coffee shop when I was at a gym fer a while, ‘afore I started up my business." Okay, this part was true. It just so happened to line up near perfect to the story that had been crafted for them, made it easier to blur those lines. "An' I used tah see this big lug every goddamn day. I think 'oh well he ain't half bad,' but I never actually talk to th' guy, yah know?, 'cause 'm always runnin' in an' out. Well 'm not lookin' where I'm going one day an'—" Here he pauses, smiling like he's remembering and shakes his head, catches Jack's eye with his own and the other man can _see_ what he's thinking, Brock knows it, because the look on his face is exasperated. "—he runs right fuckin' intah me. Jus' plows me over. 'Course 's my own fault but 'm pissed as hell 'cause I got hot coffee all over me and this _giant_ starts tryin' tah clean it up with those stupid-small paper towels." 

A broad smile had taken up his face by this point and the arm Jack had tossed across his shoulders had moved to wrap long fingers around his nape, idly scratching at the hairs there. Brock angled back into it a bit, shifting around like he was getting comfortable. Really, he was trying to get a look at everyone and _oh, hello._  
Mr. Not So Tall and Creepy was staring. Good. Brock filed that away to ask Jack about once this story was done. 

"Anyway," he continues, tilting his head to lay it back against Jack's shoulder, hands moving a mile a minute, "this guy tries to clean me up an' then he insisted I give him my number sos he can return my dry cleanin'. I ain't an idiot, right?, but I figured what could it hurt. Th' guy already felt bad enough an'...." Brock stopped, sucked in a breath, let it out with a bit of a laugh. "An' 's how I married my best friend." 

A chorus of "awwws" and "oh my God that's so sweet" echoed around them but Brock didn't do anything but stare at his hands, suddenly painfully away that ninety percent of that story had been laced with the real deal. Jack shifted beside him and, when Brock turned to catch his eye, Jack already had a hand lifting up his chin, mouth sweet and gentle as he pressed a kiss to his lips. 

Reasonably stunned when they pulled apart, Brock cleared his throat and pressed his nose into Jack's neck, feigning embarrassment (or _mostly_ ). The whisper was only loud enough for Jack to hear. "That creepy fucker keeps starin'. My six." Jack nods once, so subtle it was blink-and-you-could-miss-it quick and then they pull apart, Brock brushing his nose against the other man's cheek for good measure. A chagrined look crosses Jack's face before Maria clears her throat pointedly, coming forward with two glasses and a platter of cookies. 

Just across the way, the guy still has his eyes on them. So, Brock smiles and he waves. "Hey Mar," he says, real nice like, "who's that behind yah? Think he came in late." 

"Oh! That's Alexander. He works at the high school. Math I think. He's kind of quiet. I'm surprised he came tonight." 

_Bingo._

Jack stiffens up beside him, but only just, and Brock nods his head as he chews, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. He'd thought they were store bought. "Holy shit. What're in these things?" 

Both Maria and Jack laugh and Brock feigns hurt, shooting a look his SIC's way. His sweet tooth was well known by everyone at SHIELD, _certainly_ by Jack, but the man just shakes his head, the look almost fond. Brock has to swallow the next bite down with a drink of water, throat suddenly gone dry.

"Ahhh I think they're chocolate oatmeal cookies? Sharon made them for the party." 

"Tell her they're fuckin' fantastic an' I want th'—" A wheeze cut his words off and then he was coughing, a suddenness to it that made his eyes widen, water pooling at the corners.

Fuck…fuck he couldn't breathe. And his mouth... _fuck him_ —

"What's in them, Maria?" That was Jack, suddenly right there and very close, large hand wrapped around the back of his neck, the other fishing around for something in his pocket. What the fuck was he—

"Um, I don't...oats, chocolate, cinnamon—" Jack cuts her off with a curse and Brock can't help but try to wheeze out a laugh despite his rapidly closing throat. _Of all the fucking things._

"It's the cinnamon. He's allergic." Jack's hand is still cradling his neck but now he's gotten a hold of his thigh...what was he—

The suddenness of the needle in his leg makes his eyes screw shut, hand flexing against his other hip. Distantly, he wonders when Jack had started carrying those things around again, but only just. It had been years since Brock had had an allergic reaction to anything, so long in fact that he'd stopped carrying them except for long operations. Sure, he'd brought them with him here, but they'd been in his bag—

_His fucking bag._ The bag that had been in the bathroom before they left. Sneaky bastard. As the swelling came down, and the tunnel vision receded, Brock realized that he was surrounded, Maria and Sharon on one side, Wanda on their right. He was half in Jack's lap, his field of vision taken up almost entirely by a pair of worried green eyes. Yet, the feeling of it all made his skin crawl, like he was going to crawl _out of it._ He wanted to get away from these people, suddenly, though he knew from the panic in the blonde’s eyes she had never meant to hurt him. 

_"Wanna go home, Jackie,"_ he mumbled, the Russian slipping easily off his tongue, though a bit muddled by the tiredness caused by the reaction, the slur to his words running some of the words together. He turned his face to press into Jack's stomach, curling into a ball to get away from all the fucking people, holding back a whimper by the skin of his teeth. 

Jack's voice above him was soothing, the hand carding through his hair even more so, before it wasn't. Before he was suddenly in the fucking air and holding on for dear life, Jack's voice a mix of English explaining themselves and waving the women away and Russian, his mother tongue.  
Brock had learned it years ago, knowing that Jack was more comfortable with it though he was fluent in English, and others besides. It was the principle of the thing, and it had certainly come in handy now. It was like a well-worn blanket settling around his shoulders, safe and warm and something that, maybe, reminded him of home.

The last thing he registered before they were walking out into a dark street was Jack's low voice, murmuring in Russian and quietly telling the team listening through their earpieces that Brock was alright. 

Or, at least, that he was now.

***

Waking up later that night was a bitch and you could quote Brock on that shit. His head hurt and he felt like his mouth was full of cotton, a bit groggy still from being hit with epinephrine and then dosed with Benadryl when Jack had gotten him home. He remembered that much, at least, but not how he got into bed, how he changed out of his clothes, or was wrapped in a fuckin' blanket cocoon.

Wiggling out from under the pile and dumping half of it on the floor took a few minutes, long enough where Brock almost gave up and laid there until Jack got back from wherever the fuck he'd gone; the spot next to him was still warm, so he hadn't strayed far. Brock waited, half sprawled across the bed in the dark, fairly certain he was in nothing but an oversized shirt and some boxers, wondering how the fuck this was his life and what the hell he’d done to deserve this sweet misery.  
How he could maybe, just maybe, get to keep it when this was all said and done. 

Jack crept back into the room a few minutes later, as silent as he could be. A sleepy smile pulled at Brock's mouth, endeared that his friend was trying so hard not to wake him up. "'S alright Jackie, 'm awake." Brock pulled a face a second later. Christ was that _his_ voice? It sounded like he'd dry swallowed a bunch of tacks. 

"You shouldn't be. An’ you sound like shit." 

"Well I am. So quit yer fuckin' yappin’ an' come back tah bed, asshole." He paused for a moment, realized how that sounded, and promptly curled back into a ball. A quiet "please" escaped a minute later and Brock heard a quiet sigh before the comforter shifted and Jack climbed in beside him, legs nudging the backs of his thighs as he crawled closer. It was quiet for a long while after they got comfortable again, Brock almost asleep curled in the curve of the other man's shadow, before Jack spoke. 

"Told the team you're alright. They heard everything. Saw it too." He cleared his throat and Brock heard more than saw the hand move in the dark. The palm of it was large and warm, curled around the back of his neck like before, and he pushed into it with a heavy sigh. The other one was nowhere to be found, though Brock had the vague feeling that it was hovering, deciding where to land. 

It tucked itself around his hip a moment later. 

"'M fine. Jus' tired. An' make sure they know Sharon didn't do nothin'. Checked her out while you were gone today. She's clean. Her an’ Maria." Brock didn't know why he was defending them, not really, except that he was. Jack nodded, squeezing the back of his neck lightly, fingertips carding through the hair at the nape. "I'll figure out what tah tell 'em about th' Russian shit later."

"Already did. Said it was so you could talk with my grandma." Brock swallowed, a lump suddenly forming in his throat. He'd told the truth, then. No matter what excuse Brock gave, that had been the root cause. She was important to Jack, the only family he had left, so of course he was gonna learn it. 

But Brock didn't say anything. Instead, he curled himself tighter, pushed back into those hands, and listened until Jack's breathing evened out and he fell asleep. If, maybe, he curled a little closer into Jack’s side or pulled his arms closer, well, that was no one’s business but his own.


End file.
